


Join Me Sometime

by bustoparadise



Series: The Jenny and The Ox [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Complete, F/F, Friendship, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4136106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bustoparadise/pseuds/bustoparadise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian knows how to deal with pain—drinking and sex. After he fails to reconcile with his father, however, neither of those work. Dorian never thought to try helping someone else with their problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Join Me Sometime

“If it helps,” said Adder, “I’m a disappointment to my family, too.”

The Bull’s Chargers were playing war games outside with Inquisition soldiers, which meant the Herald's Rest was down most of its usual patrons. Maryden wasn’t on duty yet, so all they had to listen to was the crackle of the fireplace and the soft murmur of conversation coming from a group of mixed humans and elven scouts. Every now and then, one of them glanced over at Dorian and Adder, seated at the bar. _The Inquisitor and the evil Tevinter magister drinking side by side just after noon. What rumours are we spawning today, I wonder?_

Dorian grunted. “You know what’s also disappointing? This ale. Notes of pig swill; an aftertaste of piss. If I didn’t need to be dead drunk....”

From behind the counter, Cabot glowered at him. Though he knew his next mug would likely contain notes of bartender spit, Dorian didn’t care. It was hard to care about anything other than his meeting with his father.

“My parents wanted me to be a merchant,” Adder continued. “My parents were tamassrans―er, Qunari priests. They made sure I could read, write, do math and all that. Every time we had money, it went to books so I could improve my mind.”

A comment Iron Bull had made about why he obeyed Vivienne sprang to mind. “I thought only Qunari women were priests.” _If I can recall random facts like that, I'm not drunk enough._

“Oh, they are. Dad was given a woman's role under the Qun. He never thought he was female, though. You can imagine how much he loved the group of people who kept insisting he was.”

 _Something like a reverse-Cremisius, then._ Thinking about Krem made Dorian think about Tevinter, which made him grit his teeth as pain and homesickness hit him like a physical blow.

He missed the start of Adder resuming her story. “—sixteen, we only ever had three books. Who hires Qunari when they can give jobs to decent, Andraste-fearing humans? Even elves and surface dwarves are familiar. But oxmen? They can lose their tempers at the slightest provocation. More trouble than they’re worth.

“I spent my childhood wandering from shed to stable to ditch. At sixteen, I figured I could do better. So I left. I've seen them a few times since. Those meetings,” she grimaced, “don't really end well.”

 _Oh, yes, that’s exactly the same as your father trying to use a blood magic ritual to change you._ Dorian took a long drink of his disgusting ale, sober enough to know that voicing that thought was unworthy of him. _I did invite her. It’s not her fault that she actually took me up on my offer, now is it?_

The door burst open, hitting the far wall with a bang. One of the scouts startled, grabbed the dagger at her waist, then relaxed―anyone who visited the tavern for any length of time knew Sera. Today, she was covered in white powder and grinning broadly. To Dorian’s surprise, Varric followed her, chuckling, white powder on his hands and in his hair.

“Wonderful. He’s encouraging her,” Dorian muttered.

“Oh dear,” Adder said loudly enough to carry to the newcomers, sounding more amused than worried.

_And now we have more poor fools to play 'Who's Got the Shittiest Family?' Lovely. I still have them beat. The bastard wanted to say sorry. Sorry!_

Varric was saying something about plausible deniability for the great Inquisitor Adaar, but Sera interrupted him, demanding to know if that was Adder's surname.

Varric raised an eyebrow at Sera. “How could you have missed that?”

“Oh, sorry, you call her Adaar on the regular, do you? Listen to the little people, it’s all ‘Inquisitor this’ and ‘Herald that’. And—” Sera giggled “—Ah-duuur, Ah-daaar. Back in Denerim, I heard a washerwoman say that before she lost all feeling in the left side of her body!” She flopped her left arm and leg about, even―Dorian cringed―slobbering a bit. She rambled on about the washerwoman as Dorian ordered another mug, drank and tried not to remember his father's face. The inane tale ended with all the listeners laughing.

Iron Bull entered, capturing Dorian's attention as effortlessly as ever. Only a few months ago, Dorian had watched him all the time due to suspicion—which he'd maintained even when other feelings started making themselves known. One drunken night had broken those barriers; now, Dorian could admit that he just enjoyed watching him.

“Cabot! Time to break out the casks!” the Bull bellowed, because why do anything at normal volume? Dorian swore he could hear the windows shake.

As Iron Bull and Cabot went down to the cellar, Dorian glanced around. Varric had out his notebook and was writing as Adder chattered away, Sera staring raptly at her. Dorian took another drink, only to realize he'd finished his mug unawares. He was surprised Cole wasn't here. The pain-sensing spirit was always nearby, always with his damned questions, always trying to fix the unfixable. _I ran so far and my past still followed. I was a fool to think I could rid myself of it._

“...right, Dorian?” Adder said.

Dorian ordered another mug then glanced at her. “Er, yes?”

“One of my nicknames was Pollard. Get it?” _Sweet Maker, what is she on about?_ When he didn't respond, she waved him off. “Never mind. Pollard means an animal that had its horns cut off. Of course, I still have these—” she gestured to the jagged horn buds jutting up from her bald head “—so some wit started calling me Scur....”

“Aw, look at that!” Sera said, giggling. “Dorian hates it when there's words he don't know!”

Dorian hadn't been aware of anything of the sort showing on his face. “I’m hardly a farmer. Why should I know words for livestock?”

As Sera snapped “Oi!”, Iron Bull came up from the cellar carrying two huge casks on his shoulders, muscles bulging, and Dorian couldn't care less what Sera was going on about. _There is something so amazingly hyperbolic about that man._ Dorian stood and followed as he walked past, a leaky little boat floating along on the Bull's current.

When they were far enough away from the bar, Dorian said, “The Chargers are doing well out there?”

“Six to two.”

Dorian had no idea what that meant, but Iron Bull sounded proud, so he smiled up at him. “Ah, good, good. Listen, I thought I might interrupt your plans for the evening.” He stepped in close. Qunari smelled amazing—like warm metal. Dorian theorized that it had something to do with the vitaar they usually wore. “Give the serving girls a rest, hmm?”

“All right,” Iron Bull said, chuckling. “You know, if you sober up, we can have,” his voice hit a deep register Dorian was sure no human could reach, “some _real_ fun.”

Dorian shivered. “That sounds agreeable,” he found himself saying. He must be drunk to have agreed to that. And it had been only a few days since their last rendezvous; Dorian liked to space them out to prove he had self-control. Or sometimes to punish—he'd lasted three whole weeks after the Bull had blurted out details of one of their liaisons in public and the teasing from the Inquisitor's inner circle had started.

“Ten o’clock,” said the Bull, “my room. And warm up. I want you flexible.”

Dorian tried to say something clever and seductive but only managed a breathless laugh. Ten o'clock was good; there was still time to get very drunk before he got very sober.

* * *

When ten o’clock hit, Dorian was dressed in his most Tevinter best and carried his staff. He let his magic trickle outward and shaped it into a crackling purple nimbus of lightning. Staring at the Bull's door, his heart-rate quickened, both at the expenditure of power and the thought of what was to come. He savoured the anticipation―pulse rushing, tension coiling in his stomach, sweat spilling down his back―before he threw open the door, brandishing his staff. “Die, Qunari scum!”

Iron Bull blinked. “You’re _kidding_ , right?” Straps were set up at the head and foot of his bed, buckles gleaming in the candlelight spaced evenly throughout the bedroom. There was no hiding with the Bull; he liked to see the effect he had, the marks he left.

A pleasant chill rippled across Dorian’s skin. He had to concentrate to keep up the lightning spell. “Kidding? Please! Look at my eeeevil Tevinter clothes and my eeeevil Tevinter staff and―”

Iron Bull winced. “Ugh. Do you have to use your ‘evil magister’ voice?”

“Fair enough. I'll be a less cartoonishly inept villian about to be captured and tortured by a handsome Qunari agent.”

“You _sure_ this is what you want?” Iron Bull fixed Dorian with his probing Ben-Hassrath stare.

“Need I remind you you're not the first lover I've played these games with?” Iron Bull still slipped up every so often and treated him like a neophyte. “If I've not played this particular game, well...why not give it a try?” The idea seemed threadbare now that he'd spoken it out loud. It had made much more sense as he was sobering up, for reasons he couldn't explain to Iron Bull and wasn't quite certain of himself: in playacting, he'd mock Tevinter, play the stereotype but not be Dorian Pavus, control the image even as he gave up control of everything else.

“Unless I've spoiled the mood,” he added, a challenging edge to his voice. He'd always wondered how the Bull would take Dorian bringing some ideas of his own into the bedroom.

Iron Bull held his gaze a moment longer. Then he stood, facing Dorian. His muscles tightened, and Dorian was suddenly aware of how close Iron Bull was to his maul. The image of that maul bursting through the chestplate of a red templar flashed across his mind.

“Next time,” Iron Bull said, “don’t bring your real staff. Bring something I can break. It can be a useful prop.”

Dorian’s “Oh,” came out sounding squeakier than he would have like. He kicked the door closed behind him much more suavely.

“No reinforcements, Vint?” Iron Bull rumbled. His intense focus, his great size―all moisture drained from Dorian’s mouth.

“For you?” He sent lightning arcing over Iron Bull’s head. It was closer than he'd meant it to be. His magic was getting harder to control. “I don’t need any.”

“Says the guy who just missed.”

So that was what he wanted. Dorian’s next lightning bolt didn’t miss. It wasn’t long before Iron Bull slammed him against the wall. Pain knocked the air from his lungs. Iron Bull pinned him down, an unyielding wall of muscle crushing him against cool stone. Bull’s hand gripped Dorian’s right wrist far from his body, wisely immobilizing the hand holding his staff. Yet even now Dorian knew he was safe; he had seen Iron Bull hit much harder. This was a test.

Meeting Iron Bull’s gaze unflinchingly, Dorian hissed, “I’ll never talk, Qunari.”

Iron Bull grabbed Dorian’s wrist and twisted. Pain burst, sharp and filling. Gasping, Dorian dropped his staff. He could barely hear it clatter to the floor over the thunder of his pulse.

“Oh good,” the Bull said. “You chose the hard way.”

The hard way should have been glorious. And for moments, it was. But those moments were too brief―flashes, heartbeats. His mind couldn't settle. Iron Bull had always taken Dorian away from himself before, left him only quivering, yearning flesh with one goal, one purpose.

His thoughts kept getting sucked into the same undertow: _Some giant Qunari animal is hurting me, and I’m letting him. It’s one thing to turn away from blood magic, from being forced to live a lie. That’s noble. That’s admirable. It’s another thing to wallow in filth. To beg to be hurt. A Pavus should never beg._ Every instant of pleasure, big or small, only made him feel worse.

Soon, Dorian was kneeling naked on the floor, hands tied tight behind his back, a blindfold over his eyes. Iron Bull paced around him. Dorian didn't know what he was going to do next. He was utterly helpless. He should have been loving this.

A slap snapped his head to the side and set his ears ringing. He almost unbalanced onto the floor but just managed to right himself. With an irritated grunt, Iron Bull pushed him onto his back. “Maybe I’ll open the door,” Iron Bull whispered in his ear. “Let the other prisoners hear your screams.”

Panic burst. He could barely breathe. _Papa will know not him not him_

“Katoh!” A sob followed. Dorian started crying. _Shit! Stop it!_

The change was instant. Iron Bull took the blindfold off and quickly untied Dorian’s shaking hands. Dorian wiped his face.

“Here.” Iron Bull handed him a potion, which Dorian gulped down. His body’s pain vanished. Blinded by tears, he scrambled for his clothes, somehow managing to get them on despite his numb fingers. He didn't look at Iron Bull; he couldn’t stand to see the disappointment, the irritation. He must be rolling his eyes at the sensitive fop of a lover he'd picked up.

_Crying like a child, some little boy who believes that love is greater than legacies, that people mean it when they say they won't hurt him...._

The Bull's massive hand came to rest gently on his shoulder. “Dorian....”

Dorian’s reaction was instant―and loud. “I said ‘katoh,’ you stupid Qunari ass!”

Then he yanked the door open and stormed off to his room. Only when he woke up the next morning, far too sober for his liking, did he realize he left his staff in the Bull’s room.

* * *

The next morning, Dorian, two bottles of wine in hand, made his way to the “good section” of the library, his corner with his chair, where he had relocated the most important, interesting works. Dorian sat—and was startled by a long, loud fart.

Blushing, he leaped to his feet and turned around. There was a slit cut into the gorgeous pink velvet cushion, and inside was a now-deflated farting bag.

Someone behind the left-hand bookshelf started giggling.

Glancing over, Dorian saw a gap between two books that had provided a perfect vantage point for Sera, who swung from behind the bookshelf. He tossed the farting bag on the floor, glaring at her.

“Shoulda seen your face!” she crowed. “That,” she gestured to the farting bag, “is for calling Addie an oxman the other day.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You said poll-whatever was a word for cows. That's pretty much calling her a cow. She told me not to pick a fight with you. Getting angry’s too _Qunari_. But she never asks me why I’m not elfy. Bet she never asked you why you’re not Tevinter-y. We gotta respect that, yeah? Treat her like she treats us.”

“Of course. I'll apologize when I see her next.” This was obviously what Sera wanted to hear; Adder was mature enough not to be offended by what someone said deep in their cups.

Sera had clearly expected to argue more, and now looked at a loss. “Yeah. Well...good, then! And don’t forget it!” She poked her head out of Dorian’s alcove. “Ergh, that sleepy mage didn’t even blink at that massive fart.” She jerked her chin to where Helisma usually stood.

“Tranquil.”

“Yeah, sure, Tranquil. Ugh. Only thing weirder than you mages is when you’re made into _not_ mages.”

Dorian didn’t want to talk about the Tranquil any more than he had to. “If I’ve amused you quite enough for one morning...?” He opened his copy of Livinia’s _Republica_.

Sera shifted her weight as if to go, but didn't. “I can't figure her, you know?”

“Sera, I most certainly don't know. I'm not in your head, hearing your thoughts, you see.”

“Addie. She's weird. I think her problem is always listening and shit. Makes her stupid. Cozying up to mages, making pets of mind-reading demons, letting some arse who tried to kill us by friggin' _warping time_ research more magic shite—”

Dorian flinched at the mention of Alexius. He began thinking of Felix, of his father, of his homeland. Was he the world's biggest fool, to think he could change Tevinter? He had been so certain before meeting his father. “Alexius is being supervised by Fiona herself, and he's shackled. If he tries anything, we'll know.”

Sera didn't even glance at him. “She thinks if we all just sit down and have a jolly chin-wag, we'll all be friends. The world don't work like that. But then...then she goes and does smart shit like lettin' me off that Hammond prick. She's too nice.”

 _'Off that Hammond prick'?_ Dorian almost enquired further before deciding he was likely better off not knowing. “Yes, the Qunari mercenary who killed fifteen bandits on our last Hinterlands outing is a paragon of _niceness_.”

“Argh! So much friggin' talking!” She stomped off.

Sera always left him baffled. _Yes, well...that was a thing._ A bottle of wine later, he hadn't made much more sense of her.

“Dorian.”

He froze, wineglass halfway to his lips. Iron Bull stood in front of him, Dorian's staff in hand, as incongruous in this place of higher learning as his namesake would be in a china shop. To steady himself, Dorian raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. In a flash, all the times he whimpered, begged, whined, or pleaded in the bedroom returned to him. Blood suffused his skin. But, hang it all, he was Dorian Pavus, and this was his place, not Bull’s. He was in control for once.

“Yes?”

“Here's your staff.”

Dorian leaned his staff against the chair, said thank you, then turned back to his book.

“So about last night―” Iron Bull began.

“Really? Aren’t there too few people around for a discussion of our rendezvous? Should we invite the Tranquil over for you to pontificate further?”

That startled a chuckle out of Iron Bull. “Uh, they can already hear us because you’re shouting.”

 _Shouting? Oh, please!_ Now he was deliberately being difficult. Dorian should have expected it. “So, out with it. Let’s hear your jibes. Then we can move on with our day like civilized people, assuming you’re capable of such.”

Iron Bull huffed, actually huffed, like the infuriating animal he was. “I’ll just come back later.” He turned to leave.

Did he always have to have the last word? “You assume I care whether you're here at all, Bull.”

A faint twitch ran down the muscles of Iron Bull’s back. Dorian was reminded of a horse shaking off a fly. He didn’t turn around. He just left, taking that maddening aroma of sun-baked metal with him. Dorian took another book from the shelf. He dropped it a few times, but eventually he managed to open it up and start reading.

“That’s it.”

Dorian's head snapped up. Had he been sleeping? His chin felt damp―with sweat, obviously. Dorian didn't drool like a peasant.

Adder removed a glass from his hand, grumbling, “It’s only a matter of time before you spill wine on my books. _Again_.”

“Oh, please. I was doing you a favour.” Her hands were on him, lifting him out of his chair; she started walking and he followed. He had a very important point to make. “Dousing Philliam’s works in wine will distract from the stench of shit and failure that clings to anything he ever wrote.” Books swam before his eyes then started receding....

Giant wolves, elves and eyes watched him from the walls. It was like a fever dream. How had they gotten to Solas’s room?

The elf quietly said, “Inquisitor, Dorian.” He was reading a book at his desk and didn't even look up as they passed. _Of course, he gets to read unmolested. It’s not fair!_

“You work out your issues however you want,” Adder said, “but hurt my books and you’re in trouble. And one of the only books I had growing up was by Philliam, by the way. I’m partial.”

“I’m surprised you have any grasp of grammar, coherent narrative, proper pacing....”

“When we go to the Graves, someone is riding the Bog Unicorn. Ass.”

Somehow, he'd gotten into his room. There seemed nothing else to do but curl up and pray he wouldn't dream the dreams that had stalked him since the Gull and Lantern: chasing his father through the family home, finding only cobwebs, dust and splatters of blood.

* * *

 The Emerald Graves were pretty as a painting. It was no battleground between mages and templars, no disgusting swamp, no rain-swept coast, no scorched and blasted plain. Everything was vibrant, lush and green. Sunlight burst through the thick canopy in brilliant yellow patches. Hidden in the great heights of these trees, birds called to one another.

The giants, brontos and great bears agreed with Dorian that this place was just lovely. That was why they made it their home. They were just finishing up killing one of those forest denizens now.

With a grunt, Cassandra pulled her sword from the great bear’s neck. They were in the shade; the blood that gushed forth looked black. The great beast collapsed. Its muzzle gaped, saliva and snot dribbling, as it panted raggedly. Its paws scrabbled at the dirt as it tried to stand.

“Tough old bastard,” Iron Bull said. Then he slammed the butt of his maul into the back of the bear’s skull. The beast gave a final jerk then fell still.

 _Once, I never knew what death looked like._ Dorian can barely remember that young man anymore. _Adventuring does take its toll, doesn’t it?_

His gaze fell on Iron Bull. They'd had a quick conversation about their aborted liaison before setting out for the Emerald Graves. He'd approached Iron Bull as they saddled their horses—Dorian riding the Bog Unicorn, as Adder had threatened.

“My apologies for that night, Bull. And for how I treated you after. I was...startled, I suppose. But I had no right to be such an ass about it.” He had almost said something syrupy—'I do very much care whether you're here'—but good sense stopped him.

“No offense taken, big guy. Riding the bull can stir up some weird shit sometimes. Not the first time someone's misjudged their tolerance.”

Iron Bull had spoken with such casualness, such ease.... Dorian had suddenly felt exhausted, somehow too young and too old at the same time. The gap between him and Iron Bull had yawned ever larger. _Of course, that was nothing the great Iron Bull hasn't seen before. He's had hundreds of lovers—I'm just one more._

Dorian had wanted to turn away, but if anything was a sign that something was troubling him, it was Dorian being introverted. “I'm glad we cleared the air, Bull. And now,” he had sighed heavily for effect, “for another lovely outdoor adventure. How many people do you think we'll slaughter this time?”

Panting, Adder said, “This is the last hide we need. The Dalish are gonna love us for sure.” As she sheathed her daggers, her gaze fell on something to her left. “Hey, it’s that place in the note, right?” Without seeking confirmation, she walked over to a small lion fountain. Dorian had no idea what she was talking about until she removed a candle from her pack. Even then, he couldn’t remember specifics: A father had requested that someone light a candle for their dead son? A mother for their daughter? The Inquisitor got so many requests, it was a wonder she kept them all straight.

“I take it this means it is my turn to skin the bear?” Cassandra said drily.

“Busy honouring the dead, Cassandra, can’t hear you,” Adder sing-songed.

Dorian followed Adder. _I’m observing to better understand southern customs. I’m certainly not trying to get out of bear-skinning duty._ Sera must have been thinking the same thing because she joined them.

He revised that theory when Adder bent down to place the candle and Sera murmured “Oh, _woof_ ,” at the view of her rear.

Glancing back at her, Adder smirked. “You know, assuming we survive this Corypheus mess, I’m telling the historians to stay away from you. All they’d get is ‘Her ass was magnif!’ That I travelled through time and survived Haven? Meh. ‘That backside, though. Dead brilliant.’”

“Oi! Be fair. I’d also talk about your tits. A _lot_.”

Dorian cleared his throat. “You southerners and your quaint customs! Now, tell me _—_ is it customary to keep talking about 'tits' and 'ass' at an actual funeral? Or is this just for the lighting of the candles?”

“Ahem. Right.” Adder turned back to the candle, lit it, then stood and bowed her head.

Suddenly, Cole was by her side. Dorian's shoulders tightened; he and Cole had been having far too many conversations about his father since his meeting at the Gull and Lantern. But Cole was staring at Adder, not him.

“Blankets rustle,” Cole murmured. “He whispers, 'Herah?'”

Adder's head snapped to Cole. From what Dorian could see of her profile, her lips were parted in surprise. _Oh no._

“Panic prickles the skin―what if he wakes _her_?” Cole continued. “You lie. 'I just need some air. Sleep tight.' But tonight is a night of lasts: the last blow, the last bruise, the last belt and burst of blood. The last words your baby brother said to you.”

Behind Dorian, a bow creaked. Sera, her face flushed, had an explosive arrow pointed at Cole.

“Cole!” he shouted. “Damn it, man, move!”

At the same time, Sera shouted, “Shut it, Creepy! Not _her_ , under-fuckin’-stand?”

Cole wasn’t even listening: he was leaning in, talking intently to Adder. A Horror spell leapt to Dorian’s mind...but if he cast it on Sera, she would never forgive him. Dare he risk it?

Sera didn't give him a chance to analyze further: with a scream of rage, she loosed her arrow. Adder shoved Cole out of the way. The arrow cracked into her armor at the shoulder; the explosion staggered her, but she righted herself and landed in a crouch. Burn marks blackened Adder’s right cheek, marring her pale green and light yellow vitaar. Grimacing, she unclipped a potion from her belt.

“I didn’t―that wasn’t―” Sera stammered. The pink leached from her cheeks. “You―you okay, Addie?”

Adder’s reply was a long inhale, her jaw clenched. She gulped down the potion as Cassandra stormed over, demanding to know what was going on.

“Today, Sera learned that we use our words, not our arrows, when we get a case of the grumpies,” Adder grumbled.

“Cole was...being Cole,” Dorian explained. “Sera didn’t appreciate it.”

Dorian was too far away to hear what Varric cursed, but he assumed it was something like “Well, shit.”

“You thought it wise to raise your weapon in a group of trained fighters when we weren’t under immediate threat?” Cassandra said, staring at Sera coldly.

“I was just gonna shoot his arse-sodding hat off his arse-shite head!” Sera said. “That’s all! I didn’t know Addie would step in!”

Adder’s cheek was already healing, so it wasn't physical pain that made her voice so heavy. “If you ever point a weapon at a teammate again, Sera, you’re out of the Inquisition. Understand?”

“I―”

“Did I stutter?” When she raised her voice, Dorian realized how rarely he'd seen her angry. “ _Tell me_ you understand!”

Sera’s “Yeah,” was so quiet that the trilling of a warbler obscured it. He could only tell the word by the form her lips made. Her gaze dropped to her bow, held slackly in her hands.

“Good.” A great sigh burst from Adder. Her inhale seemed quite close to a sniffle. “I’ll find Cole.”

Knowing how silently she could move, that Dorian heard twigs crackling and branches brushing against armor told a tale all its own. A bronto bellowed in the distance. Dorian started to follow Adder, only to stop short at Varric’s “Hey!” He glanced back to see Sera sprinting in the direction of the bellow.

“I’m on it,” Blackwall said, charging after her. Varric, Solas and Iron Bull followed.

Dorian hesitated. Much as he liked to think his skills were indispensable, five members of the Inquisition’s inner circle could probably handle a bronto.

“It’s like we’re glorified babysitters some days,” Vivienne commented to Cassandra. She glanced at the great bear corpse and fire flared in her palm. Dorian heard the yip of a fennec and quickly retreating paws.

He found Adder leaning against a spruce tree, staring unwaveringly at a patch of ferns in front of her. A stream trickled pleasantly between the two of them.

“I think I found Cole,” she said flatly. She shrugged. “Or I’m just staring at nothing. Take your pick.”

“Sera decided to take her frustration out on a bronto. The others are backing her up.”

Adder grunted. She remained silent for a moment, then said, “So...you heard everything?”

He and Sera had been standing too close not to have. “Yes. I'm so—”

She interrupted without looking at him. “ _Don't_ say you're sorry. When I was fourteen, I ran away from my family. I left my little brother in the hands of our mom, who...couldn’t handle things after Dad died.

“I never saw them again. Her, I didn’t two shits about. Him, I tried to find. That’s the only reason I kept the damned last name. But―” her deep voice quavers “―if you want to eat, you can’t stop working to chase every rumour you hear. You can’t―” She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. Her breath came in a ragged gasp.

Dorian found himself standing before her with no memory of having crossed the stream between them. He was close enough to see the wetness on her cheeks when she dragged her hands down her face.

“Andraste's fucking Herald," she snapped. "The leader of the Inquisition. Too busy chasing coin to rescue a scared little boy.”

It was a terrible story. Dorian ached for her and her brother and her parents, but, despite what she obviously expected, he couldn't hate her for what she'd done. Not when she still wept for it. Not when she'd called him brave for walking his own path. Not when she'd lifted up the rock of his confidence for just a moment and exposed the gross, skittering things beneath―and hadn’t flinched. It just wasn't in him.

“You’re rescuing the world.” As she started to glare, he added, “It’s not the same, I know. And it will never be enough, not for someone like you. But you made a mistake. Circumstances didn’t come together to let you rectify it. Flagellate yourself all you want, you’ll get no help from me.”

“I've been thinking...I've got tons of scars from my parents.” She sighed, wiping at her eyes. “I hate to think that I pushed some of my pain onto you and your father. Maybe if you'd just talked—”

His father's voice echoed in his mind: _“I only wanted what was best for you.”_ Dorian felt ill.

“Mm, true, the part where you knocked me over the head and dragged me out of the tavern _was_ a bit much, Adder. For Andraste's sake, I left willingly!" he snapped. "Is that so hard to understand?”

She looked startled at his outburst, and came back with, “Damnit, Dorian—I just want to make _your_ reunion with _your_ father all about _me_. Can't you let me have this? You're being an awful friend right now.”

His anger lessened and his lips twitched in a smile. “My apologies.”

Something moved out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head and saw Cole, a few yards from them, watching them intently. Dorian frowned; had he been here the whole time? _Though I suppose it wouldn't be a violation of privacy for a spirit that already knows every painful, sordid thing about us._

After a deep, calming breath, Dorian said, “I'm not usually ready to challenge everyone to fisticuffs for offering sympathy.”

“Hey, it's still raw. I get it.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Dorian muttered, “Some things you can't forgive.”

Adder nodded. She inhaled, as if to speak, but no words came.

“But hate hurts,” said Cole, bewildered. “Makes healing harder. Arms crossed over the chest can't hide the hits to the heart!”

Dorian realized he and Adder are both standing in near-identical postures: arms crossed, gazing into the past. He lifted his gaze, met hers with a small smile...and she smiled back. It wasn't a happy expression, but neither was his. She understood.

“Hmm. Now, Adder, I know you don’t care for the Qun, but I could heartily support the practice of having no parents.”

“I’ll talk to Josephine, see if we can set something up. Maker knows, some people seem to expect me to start raving about Koslun any day now.”

“Oh, try to start the raving next Monday, will you? That’s the day I chose in the betting pool.”

Her laugh was deep, genuine, and he found a weight in his chest lightening at the sound. Adder clapped him on the shoulder. It seemed like it had been forever since anyone touched him in a simple, platonic way. His thoughts turned to Felix and guilt pulsed through him. It felt wrong to find a new friend so soon after his dearest friend’s death.

“Laughter contains, controls, corrals the pain into the shape you give it, not the shape it gives itself,” Cole noted.

Adder cleared her throat. “Sure. Sharing is also important...but sharing when the sufferer chooses, with who the sufferer chooses. Understand?”

“Words, the push that lifts the wheel from its rut, letting it roll free. But sometimes the wheel is stuck fast; it's been stuck so long it can't remember rolling. Pushing only makes it squeal. Like Vivienne, like Sera.... Closed down, cutting off.” He closed his bulging eyes, inhaled, then opened them. With obvious effort, he managed, “I will try. I might forget, but I’ll try not to. I’ll try very hard.”

Dorian couldn’t help but note, “It’s ‘with _whom_ the sufferer chooses,’ thank you. Tsk. It’s as if you grew up hand-to-mouth and had to learn your wordsmithing from Philliam, of all things.”

His comment attracted Cole's attention. “Dorian, why haven't you shared what happened with your father with the Iron Bull?” His pale-grey eyes went far away. “So strangely gentle when he's inside me, faint twinges to accommodate the size but even that's getting easier.... Why wouldn't he be gentle with the rest of you?”

Dorian's stomach froze over and his cheeks burned red-hot. _No. Fasta vass, no. This is not happening._ He opened his mouth but no sound came out, as in a nightmare.

As Adder fell into a sudden coughing fit, Cole continued. “Bare and bound flesh...but not bared and unbound feelings. Why? Is it because you think you need to hurt all the time?”

_If I ever get feeling back in the rest of my body, I'm breaking Adder's rule about attacking teammates!_

“Relationships aren't always so simple, Cole. Leave it be," Adder said gently. "Why don't you join the others?”

“All right,” Cole said.

Once Cole was out of range, Dorian snapped, “Not trying very damned hard, is he? _Vishante kaffas_!” He realized it had never crossed his mind to tell Iron Bull. To his surprise and irritation, Dorian felt a twinge of guilt. Cole hadn't been wrong about the Bull's gentleness. But what would a true Qunari know of families or legacies? And when he and the Bull were alone together, matters became so blissfully uncomplicated. Why should he bring the outside world into what the two of them shared? There was no call for it.

“Maybe Varric can give him some pointers,” Adder mused. Turning to Dorian, she commented, “If it makes you feel any better, I'm dying of envy. Sounds like you two are having fun.” Her gaze turned wistful. “Wish I were having fun.”

They'd had enough soul-baring conversations for one day. “Skyhold is full of many lovely, charming ladies.”

“That I feel guilty flirting with, now that I'm their boss! The only person who treats me the same is Sera, and,” she snorted, “I don't even know what's going on there. She's waiting for me to beg her, I guess.”

Lately, instead of complaining about Sera's bizarre slang and thought processes, Adder had started saying things like, 'She actually makes sense if you take the time to listen to her' and 'She's so much fun!' Dorian had hoped that this interest, and the flirting he'd witnessed, had been merely friendly. She spoke quite warmly of Josephine, after all, and he'd seen her flirt with Cassandra. He liked to think Adder had better taste than to seriously pursue Sera. _It seems I was terribly wrong. Even the greatest heroes must have a fatal flaw, I suppose._

Dorian recalled Sera's outburst at the library. _I shouldn't say anything. The inconstant child will be bored of Adder in a month or less. She could break Adder's heart._

_Or they might part ways perfectly amicably, leaving Adder free for worthier loves. Who can say?_

Hoping he was doing the right thing, Dorian commented, “I had an interesting conversation with Sera about you, actually. More a monologue, really.”

“Oh?” The word was so neutral it could only have been affected.

“She doesn't understand you.”

Adder raised her eyebrows. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“You're trying to give rights and privileges to people who have historically been oppressed, which makes you stupid and confusing. You also use too many words to solve your problems, which, again, makes you stupid and confusing.”

“Ah. Well...I'm not changing either of those things, so I suppose that means no fun for Adder.” She glanced at him. “Interesting that you said 'full of charming ladies.'”

Dorian scoffed. “Adder, you simply can't be interested in men. You've never flirted with me.”

“You never considered that maybe you're just not my type?”

Dorian gave that question the scornful “Hah!” it deserved.

“I mean, you're right, but now I hate to admit it. Your head's big enough as it is.”

They returned to the camp to find that the bear corpse had been skinned and removed, taken to either the main camp or Fairbanks' people to continue the tanning process. The bronto hunters were returning as well, dragging a dead bronto absolutely pincushioned with arrows. Seeing Adder, Sera froze.

Adder looked at her, then looked at the beast. “It's a good thing the Dalish clan asked for bear hide, not bronto. I'm not sure there's enough here to make small-clothes.”

Sera relaxed with a giggle. “Ugh, leather smalls!”

“Wearing leather against the skin can be surprisingly comfortable if it's treated right,” Dorian said, with just enough of a salacious edge to his tone that he prompted a disgusted grunt from Cassandra.

To Dorian's surprise, bronto meat was actually rather tasty when prepared with the roots and fiddleheads Solas had found and seasoned with the spices Vivienne had brought. There were jokes around the fire. Adder started a conversation about the worst food each person had ever eaten, which was vile and vulgar and utterly hilarious. Dorian was happily involved until Iron Bull spoke.

“Yes, ma'am, I'll draw your water right away,” he was saying to Vivienne. He turned and walked from the campfire.

Dorian sat, pinned to the ground. His gaze found Adder, who was laughing at something Blackwall had said. _No matter if the Bull can't understand me, if we self-destruct as any Tevinter-Qunari pairing naturally would.... I'll have a friend to talk to after it's all done. If it's done._ It still took Dorian until Iron Bull had made two trips, almost filling up Vivienne's tub, to get up the nerve to follow him.

He found Iron Bull a few minutes from camp, dipping two buckets in a stream. Glancing up, the Qunari said, “Hey. Something on your mind?”

Any way he approached speaking of his past seemed too dramatic, too fraught. “Perhaps I just wanted to watch you bend and lift heavy things.”

Iron Bull chuckled. “And not help, of course.”

Footsteps approached. Glancing over his shoulder, Dorian saw Adder carrying pine cones, of all things. Her gaze flicked between the two of them. “The requisitions officer said the University of Orlais needs a flora survey of the Emerald Graves.”

Dorian was pretty sure he would have remembered an assignment that stupid, for mocking purposes if nothing else. It took Iron Bull's incredulous, “Uh huh...?” to feel completely certain she was lying, however.

“Argh, one day, Bull, I'll fool you.... So, I'm going to replace Sera's arrowheads with pine cones. That'll teach her to shoot me in the shoulder. And also,” she waggled her eyebrows, “show her how non-verbal I can be.”

Dorian felt he showed great restraint in not groaning in dismay. “I see. And if a giant attacks us and she needs to defend herself?”

Adder grinned. “I get to swoop in heroically, save her life and say something like 'I'll never let anything hurt you' while I hold her in my arms.” She paused. “Or maybe I'll just pine cone the explosive arrows. Either way,” another glance between him and Iron Bull, “sorry to interrupt. I'll go over here.”

As she walked off, Iron Bull muttered, “Oh-kaaaay....”

“I've created a monster.”

“Can't say I'm surprised about her and Sera. They've been circling around each other for a while. So, Dorian, what's up?”

The weight of his father's crime crushed his tongue, sucked the air from his lungs. Dorian wanted to scream. _How can he still disappoint me so much? Will this ever fucking end?_

He thought of Adder, about the pain she'd suffered and inflicted and how she couldn't forgive any of it. Of poor Cole, who thought that just because someone was sometimes gentle meant they would understand you, that they'd never hurt you. Of all the whores Dorian had fucked and bottles he'd drunk, and how those only helped for so long.

“Last week, Mother Giselle received a letter from my father....” Dorian told him the whole story.

In response, he received a “Shit, that's rough,” and a growled “Fucking Vints.” There was no maudlin hugging or flowery declarations. Dorian felt as tired as he had before he started speaking.

Then Iron Bull said, “Drinks are on me when we hit the nearest town,” and Dorian found himself smiling.

“Ah, enabling my alcohol dependency. I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

He didn't feel much better. But he didn't feel worse, either. _Let's start there, then._

* * *

Sera wakes up to the sound of someone very close. Turning in her bedroll, she sees a large figure silhouetted by the firelight outside her tent flap. “Wha—?” she begins.

“I'm sorry to wake you.” It's Adder, who sounds embarrassed. “Um, I'll just....”

Sera sits up. “Addie...?”

Adder sighs. After a moment, she blurts out, “I couldn't sleep, and I started wondering if maybe you thought I was still mad at you. I'm not, okay?”

All night she proved that she wasn't mad at Sera with her actions. That's enough for Sera—sad that it's not enough for Adder. “You're allowed to be pissed if I shoot an arrow at you, Addie.”

“I understand why you did it. And I had another talk with Cole where I laid out some expectations for him. He's trying, Sera.”

Sera scoffs. “It can go try somewhere else.” Adder wants them all to get along, because she's a softie like that, but it's just not going to happen. Part of what makes her stupid. Charming, sometimes, but mostly stupid.

Adder doesn't say anything for a moment. “Well, I'm glad we talked this through. Goodnight.”

Something's off. “You woke me up just to tell me this?” Couldn't Adder have just pulled Sera aside earlier that night?

Adder gives a short, uneasy laugh. “You know how it is when you can't get to sleep. You start thinking dumb things.”

Sera does, in fact, know all about that. “Well...I got sleep powder. Think that'll help?”

“Couldn't hurt. See, this is why I keep you around—for the bright ideas.” Sera tries to catch signs of sarcasm but can't, which makes her skin tingle like some mage is firing lightning nearby. Sera grabs one of her bombs then steps out of her tent.

Adder is wearing full armour. She probably sleeps in it because she's all responsible and shite—oh, blah blah blah, attacks can happen any time. Sera is pleasantly reminded that she's only wearing her under-armour when Adder's fiery orange gaze begins to dip below her face only to snap back up. Sera stretches her arms and shoulders back to show off her tits and fakes a yawn. Not a flicker from Her Highest Inquisitorness this time—her guard is up. Pity.

“Don't see why you don't use sleep powder yourself,” Sera says, handing the bomb to her.

“I'm afraid I'd get sleeping powder mixed up with my poisons.” Either Sera's fingers linger against Adder's, or Adder's linger against Sera's. It doesn't matter. They're all but holding hands, and Sera is aware of every bit of skin on her bare arm. “Wouldn't that be silly?”

 _So tall. So bloody tall. If I ever reached up to kiss her, there'd be no air that far up. I'd swoon. She'd catch me, though—strong arms and all. Like stone. But wrapped in pillows, because they'd be comfy._ “Sure, yeah,” Sera says, though she can't remember what she's agreeing to. With a chuckle, Adder drops her hand, says goodnight, and leaves for her tent. Though her knees are wobbly, Sera somehow makes it back to her tent, too.

Only when Sera's lying in her bedroll does she realize she could have told Adder 'I could make sure you get to sleep,' leaning in all sexy-like. And then had sex. Very, very fun sex. _Ah, frig-shit! Of course, the honey words come to me after she's gone._

 _But then morning would come, and she'd hide me. I'd just be a quick shag for some stupid serious Inquisitor who sleeps in her armour and shite. Then it's on to Lady Josie, or Cass, or Varric or whatever._ She's heard Adder talk about Josephine, seen how warm her gaze gets. She's “engaging” and “so talented” and “clever”—all code for “shaggable.” Sera knows that well enough. She tosses and turns all night.

When she pulls out an arrow to go hunting nug for breakfast, there's a pine cone where the arrowhead should be. She's just on the outskirts of camp; when she glances behind her, there's Adder watching. Grabbing some fresh meat for breakfast was just a whim. Sera could've found out about the pine cones when they were being attacked. That was irresponsible. That was stupid. Sera keeps pulling arrows out until the quiver is empty. They're all pine coned. _This is something I would do._

“You bitch!” Sera shouts. “Can't sleep, my arse!” Even as she shouts, she's thinking, _Every single arrow. She didn't half-ass this._

Adder Adaar, Herald of Our Blessed Lady Andraste, Grand Inquisitorship of all Thedas, sticks her tongue out at Sera.

_Maybe I need to think some more about Adder._


End file.
